camstermon
The pile of magazines are outdated, old, and filled with has beens. The girl kicks her feet back and forth silently, a magazine about the latest trends for teens spread across her lap. She looks up at the clock, and then at her the white walls of the hospital.
"When's mommy coming out?" She asks her father, head tilted curiously and innocently. Her father stays silent.
It burns so badly inside of him. The sights, smells, sounds of being an actual normal size overwhelm him and he curls up in on himself. Being equal is a far off dream to him, and all he desires is to be flesh and blood, a want that burns so so so fiercely inside his hollowed glass chest.
She is a short fuse, filled to the brim with light and thievery and deceit. You hold your ground in the form of flipped coins and the sweet sweet scent of JUSTICE. You and her are fuses that are crossed so tightly together you spark and clash all the god damned time.
Click click.
Boom.
The smoke chokes his lungs, and he feels the warm drip-drip-dripdrip of blood trailing through his hair and down his face to drip off his cheek. He curses once twice and a third time before he spoke.
"God dammit, I mixed up the wrong fuses. Well, back to the drawing board!" he cackles with a hysterical choke whine of his laugh.
The cake is nearly done, and he is covered head to toe in all sorts of confectionery ingredients. His eyes dart around the dirtied kitchen, and he wonders in all of his thirteen years of living, if his dad would be proud of him for making the cake. "I miss you," it reads in crooked blue icing.
The fingerprints are blurred, but she can smell the lies on her breath. She holds her head high, wide eyes unblinking as she stares at the suspects. A toothy grin crosses her face, and there is the smell of cerulean oceans and summer nights of a long disbanded perfume. "You're guilty guilty guilty," she croons, and her criminal sneers.
the rhythmic sound of boots echo in his head. his heart races sweat drips down his forehead and his muscles ache from crouching in the same position for hours. he watches the shadows pace back and forth, his nightmares his sins his faults all are on patrol tonight. he stops breathing.
Her throat burned the longer she screamed, and she wanted everything to stop. Stop stop stop stop her mind shrieked, over and over again. Her heart races at the sight of the crumbled metal, the twisted scraps all over the asphalt. Her heart shatters at the sight of him on the stretcher. A mantra repeats out loud. Don't die don't die don't die don't die.
He sits upon her shoulder, a small thing, a wisp of a being really. She doesn't notice him often, and sometimes he gets lonely. Soon, however, her head turns to meet his eye and she asks him plainly, "Should I?" His heartbeat quickens and he advises her in the best way he knows how. "Take chances, you should give that thing a try."
The arches and bends in the metal structure make your eyes wander. They focus on the swirling curls of the handrails, and you feel the warmth radiate from it. The sense of being small overwhelms you and your heart races, races, races. This is it. This is what you want to be, want to make, want to achieve—you want to be an architect.
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writing since 2011 · 38 entries · 26 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means cam showed up.
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26days written
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the words cam reaches for
eyesheartstopbloodwhitelipsdieholdheadgodroomlockedlightbulbcanvasraces